“I don’t understand,” the woman says, loud enough for Darius to hear. “I had it when we left the house. I’m sure I had it.”

Her husband checks his pockets again—more desperately this time. He pulls out an antique gold pocket watch, examines it as if money might magically appear behind its face. Nothing.

Sandy, the evening waitress, approaches their table with obvious reluctance. She’s worked here long enough to recognize the signs: nice people, bad situation—the kind of problem that breaks your heart but doesn’t pay the bills.

“Folks, I hate to bother you, but…” She holds the check between two fingers like it might bite her.

The woman’s face crumples. “We’re so embarrassed. We seem to have misplaced our wallet. I don’t know how. We’ve never—this has never happened before.”

Through fragments of their conversation, Darius pieces together their story. Their Mercedes broke down on the interstate—U.S. Route 47—two miles from the nearest exit. They walked through the storm to find help, hoping to call their son from the diner’s pay phone. But the pay phone is broken, held together with electrical tape and good intentions.